


Name That Tune

by mosylu



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, Rock Star AU, Unrequited Love, or is it???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosylu/pseuds/mosylu
Summary: “It sounds like yearning,” she said. "Like there’s something you want but can’t have.”“So something just out of reach?”“More like … it’s within arm’s length, but you’re not brave enough to touch it.”Cisco Ramon is one of the biggest rock stars in the world, and he could have anybody he wants. Anybody except the one person he does want.
Relationships: Cisco Ramon/Caitlin Snow
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	Name That Tune

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the pic of Danielle and Carlos that she posted on Instagram recently, with the two of them looking like badass rock stars.

Over the sound of his piano, Cisco heard the front door open and the click of familiar high heels on the tile floor of his entryway. He didn’t bother to call out. He was the only one who played this piano. She’d know where to find him.

Sure enough, his manager strode in a few minutes later, ferociously stylish in skinny jeans, silk blouse, high heels, and a leather jacket that was probably too warm for the southern California weather, but still looked like a million bucks. “Surprised to see you awake,” she said, setting her leather satchel down next to her usual chair.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He noodled the same string of notes again, frowning. There was something off about it, but he couldn’t figure out what.

“You had a late night last night.” Caitlin pulled out her phone and tablet and laid them out on the black glass coffee table, all business as always.

“Of all people, you should know better than to believe what you see online.”

“I don’t,” she retorted, waking up the tablet and checking something. Probably her schedule, or her to-do list with its hundreds of tasks and subtasks. “Ralph texted me.”

“My driver ratted me out? Fired. Out on the street.”

“I cut his checks,” she said calmly. “So no. Not fired. And you were getting in at four, the morning before a performance. Did you even sleep?”

It wasn’t an idle question. He’d been known to pull 48-hour stretches when the music grabbed him by the throat. “Yes,” he said. “A few hours.” He ran his fingers over the keys. “I’m fine. I’ll take a nap later.”

"See that you do.” She unfolded herself from the chair and strode over to his wet bar. He ignored the various clatters and thumps and kept banging away at the chords. He was no closer to figuring them out when she set a giant mug on the music shelf of the piano, with a coaster under it.

He picked it up and took a sip. Hot tea, lemon ginger with two squeezes of honey, just the way he liked it. He would drink at least three or four more cups before tonight’s show. “Thanks,” he said.

She shrugged and settled herself back in her chair with her bottle of kiwi strawberry sparkling water. He had no idea why she liked it - the stuff tasted like it had heard about kiwis and strawberries on the Internet once - but she did, so he always had at least a case in the house.

“Are you working on the new album or messing around?” she asked.

“Mmm. Working.” He played the tune again. “This phrase won’t get out of my head but I’m not sure what it’s about. Thoughts?”

“You know I’m tone-deaf,” she said.

He shrugged. “You know what you like, though. C'mon.” He played it again, all the way through.

She listened, sipping her water. “It sounds like yearning,” she said. 

He lifted his hands from the keyboard and looked at her. “Yearning?”

“You know. Like there’s something you want but can’t have.”

He lifted the tea to his lips again to hide the hard swallow he had to take then. When he was pretty sure he had himself under control, he said, “So something just out of reach?”

She looked away for a moment. “More like … it’s within arm’s length, but you’re not brave enough to touch it.”

He stared at her. She cleared her throat and took another sip of water. “Or, you know. Something like that.”

“Hey,” he said, and she looked up. He pointed at her. “I’m the singer-songwriter around here, don’t you forget that.”

She smiled a little.

“But I gotta admit that’s … that was pretty good.” He pulled his notebook toward him and scribbled down a few of the things she’d said. The musical phrase that had been circling his brain started to grow and expand, verses, chorus, bridge … He grabbed his phone and set it to record, then played a few of the threads spooling themselves out, before he forgot them. 

Caitlin listened, sipping her water, her face calm and unreadable.

“Good,” he said, ending the recording and taking a deep gulp of tea. “I can work with that.” He got up from the piano, taking his tea with him, and went over to kiss her cheek. “Thanks.”

“It’s all you,” she said, and picked up her tablet. “If you’re at a good stopping place, we should go over your schedule for today." 

He shrugged and dropped onto the couch, setting his tea on the coffee table. "Hit me." 

She paused to glare at his coaster-less mug until he reached over and pulled one off the little rack. Then she picked up her phone and fired away like a Gatling gun.

"I’m going from here to the venue for last-minute logistics. You’re due at three for a sound check and run-through. Allegra’s arranging dinner from Sushi Ten for you and the crew.”

He nodded. “Including the Legends?”

She checked a text on her phone. “The bassist is allergic to soy and shellfish, so he asked for another restaurant, but everyone else is getting an order.”

_Shellfish,_ Cisco thought, filing it away. _And soy._

If this group did a good show opening for him tonight, they’d come with him on tour next month. Of course, Caitlin or her razor-efficient PA would make sure there weren’t any allergens on the bus or at any of the stops, but it was good to remember anyway.

“At seven,” she went on, “you’ve got a meet and greet with fans, including the Make a Wish kid you requested. Names and details on your calendar. The show starts at eight and you’ll go on at nine-thirty. Rolling Stone wants an interview after.”

“Who’s the reporter?”

She checked her notes. “Iris West-Allen.”

“Good. I like her. She doesn’t spring shit on me.”

“Yes,” she said dryly, “I like that about her too. So that should be half an hour, an hour. I’ll catch her on the way out and confirm any details.” She tapped a few notes to herself and looked up. “Am I arranging any backstage passes tonight?”

“Yeah,” he said, taking a sip of tea. “Couple of cuties I met at the bar. They follow me on Instagram.”

She raised a brow. “You have over two hundred million followers on Instagram.”

“They posted a pic last night. It was really nice meeting them.” He smirked. “Really nice.”

She picked up her phone, scrolled through his mentions, and found the post he was talking about. “These two?” she asked, holding it up to show a shot of a good-looking young couple, him sandwiched between them with his arms around their shoulders, all three of them smiling brightly. Behind them the bar was dark and crowded.

“Yep. Jake and Christy … something. Forgot their last name.” He waved a hand. “And while you’re at it, bump up their seats as far as you can.”

“I’ll take care of it,” she said, tapping a note to herself. Cool and unruffled, she continued, “Gatorade and condoms in your dressing room or back here?”

Because she was looking at her phone and not him, he allowed his eyes to narrow a little. “Let’s say both,” he said, pushing harder. “See where the night takes us.”

She didn’t react. “Okay. I’ll be by tomorrow at noon. You’ve got another interview at two. Entertainment Weekly, they’re coming here. So don’t wear yourself out with your Instagram cuties tonight." 

"Hawthorne,” he said. “That’s it. Jake and Christy Hawthorne.”

“Good, that makes my job a little easier,” she said, typing the name into her phone. “I’ll have those passes waiting at the box office.” She flipped the cover closed on her tablet and started packing it away. “Anything else you need before I go?”

He gazed up at her, thinking, _your hands, your lips, your heart._

He shrugged and drained his tea. “I’m good.”

She tucked her phone in its little outside pocket. “Don’t get lost in the music,” she said. “Remember to take that nap.”

He checked the time. “I’ve already asked for a sandwich in an hour, and after that I’ll crash for ninety minutes or so. I’ll be there in plenty of time.”

“I know,” she said. “Text if you need me.” She was off then, heels clicking on the tiles, voice echoing in the hallway as she delegated new tasks to her PA, door thumping closed behind her.

He stayed on the couch for a moment longer, telling himself it would be maudlin beyond belief if he went to the window and stared longingly after her sapphire blue car streaking down the driveway. 

The least she could have done was look a _little_ jealous when he’d implied he was going to have a wild threesome with a sexy couple tonight after the show. 

Not that he was actually going to do much more than kiss Christy Hawthorne’s cheek. This was her birthday present, her husband had told him in the bar last night, one that Jake had scrimped and saved his teacher’s salary for. 

No matter what Cisco had implied, the backstage passes and upgraded seats were just something nice for a couple of fans that had been sweet and excited when they’d recognized him at the bar last night. He hadn’t gotten the sense that either of them were open to a post-concert tryst, even with their favorite rock star. 

So he’d walk around backstage with them, make chit-chat, sign some things, and wave good-bye. And if Caitlin thought they’d done anything more in his dressing room, well then, that was her problem.

He peeled himself off the couch and went back to the wet bar to get another mug of tea going. He grabbed his phone off the piano on the way, listening to the recording he’d made. The things she’d said swirled around his head. 

_Arm’s length. Close enough to touch._

That was good. That could be something there. He played a silent string of notes on the edge of the bar as his tea steeped, hearing them swim in his head, aching. Longing. 

Yearning.

If nothing else, unrequited love was great for his songwriting.

FINIS


End file.
